


Is Death the End of Dreams?

by Stella_Gray



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Ignores the Manga completely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21619189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stella_Gray/pseuds/Stella_Gray
Summary: Gloria is born from a corpse. A corpse whose life is no longer his own. She is defined by her familiarity. A certain familiarity that makes her father hate her for who she is destined to become.Guts saw it in her the moment she was born. He couldn't stand her silver hair. He couldn't look into her blue eyes. She was someone he already knew. Someone he wished he could forget.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	1. Born From a Corpse

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So I'm trying something different for this fic. I know it's OC heavy and I completely ignored anything that happened after the anime, but I'm addicted to this concept. I promise you this whole "main character has a daughter" trope is not what I was going for with this. 
> 
> Anyway, I've already written the whole fic and I'm going to release a new chapter every week. Ok I'll shut up now so you can read.

Some would say she was born from a corpse. Perhaps not as literally as her father was, but a walking corpse. She was born from a man branded with the mark of death. His body, his flesh, his anger, his fears no longer belonged to just himself. 

She was born from a corpse. 

Guts had named her Gloria. From the moment she emerged into the cruel world, she seemed to shine a pure radiance that washed away his burdens if only for a moment. Her mother died with her birth and while it left Guts heartbroken, he should have expected it. The world he walked on was no longer his own. All that he considered precious was to be taken from him for as long as he defied the law of nature. The law of God. 

For the next few years, Guts watched Gloria grow. He watched her grow glowing silver hair. He watched her grow confident in her striking blue glare. He watched her grow to be all too familiar. 

During her first eight years of life, Gloria wondered why her father always looked at her with anguish in his eyes. She wondered why he would stay awake late into the night only to grumble curses under his breath when his eyes finally closed. Gloria could see the burdens in her father all too clearly. Any man could. He wore them like he wore his armor, his sword. It was a part of him. A part she could do nothing to help. 

She was born from a corpse. 

And she could do nothing to resurrect him. 

“Father?” she asked one night over a bowl of stew. 

Guts grunted, not bothering to turn his head. His hair had begun to turn gray at the ends and his arms weren’t as strong as they once were. The recent months had put a strain on Gloria’s father. She could tell he was even less of man without his strength. 

“Were you a soldier?” Gloria set her spoon down and straightened her back, careful to make her words flow with the grace and confidence of a hawk in the endless sky gazing down across all he owned. 

“No,” came the curt reply. 

“How did you learn to fight so well?” Guts had told her nothing of his past, of his parents, of his friends and enemies. 

She knew nothing and it angered her. Her father seemed to be a world away and no matter how she tried to show her love, her affection and gratefulness, he would only grunt and avert his gaze. 

“A man taught me. He’s dead now.” 

“What man?”

“Not every question needs an answer. The past doesn’t matter.”

Gloria wanted to huff and stamp her feet on the ground. She could practically see the lies spilling from her father’s lips. They turned to smoke as they left his mouth and went straight up her nostrils as they floated through the room, caressing the back of her throat. 

The past is all her father had. He could no longer see what was in front of him. 

When Gloria went to sleep that night, she caught a glance of her father sitting by the window, a lantern on the sill and his sword tucked against his shoulder. He did this every night: stare out at the night sky in search of something right in front of him that no one else could see. It was these moments where Gloria could see the brand on his neck. She didn’t dare ask where is came from as his answer would be the same as it always was. 

That night was full of restless sleep. She dreamed of red fields and red rivers, red castles and red thrones. She always had, every night it was the same and she’d found comfort in its empty promises. But that night she couldn’t keep her eyes closed, so she sat up in bed and peered at her father’s form hunched over the window. 

He had finally fallen asleep and in his fitful slumber tightened his grip on his sword to the point that rubies dripped down his arms and snaked through his fingers, both metal and flesh. He was shaking horribly, tears streaming down his face, mumbling obscenities Gloria couldn’t make out. 

She slipped out of bed and dashed to her father’s side. Wrapping her hands around his sword, she tried to pry it from his unforgiving grip, but to no avail. 

“Ah!” she cried out when the sharp edge of the sword cut into her palm.

Gloria watched her own rubies glide between the cracks in her hands. It was hypnotizing, a graceful movement for such a horrid substance, yet she relished in the sight of it. 

Her father was groaning louder now, drawing her attention back to the crumbling man in front of her. 

“Father!” Gloria gripped his shoulders, smearing blood on his sleeve, “Father, wake up!”

One strong shake fueled by power she didn’t know she possessed woke Guts from his sleep. His eye was wild and he lunged at Gloria, metal hand wrapped around her neck. She stumbled back with a gasp, back hitting the floor while her father towered over her, his grip tightening with every passing second. 

She tried to squeeze out a word, any word, but her voice betrayed her. Her eyes, once wide with fear, now trembled with tears. Gloria’s hands went to her father’s wrist, gripping at the metal with the rest of her strength. She smeared blood on his hand as her vision began to fade and couldn’t help but let go as the last of her strength left her. 

“Die, you bastard!” Guts’ voice was unwavering, powerful, yet trembled with distress. 

When he saw her eyes soften and flicker, Gloria assumed he’d truly woken up. A tiny gasp fell over his lips and he backed away, guilt written in his clenched jaw. 

“Father…” her voice was incredibly hoarse and she barely managed to get the whole word out. 

Guts stood up quickly, without any grace, and ran from the house, out to the waterfall beyond their cottage. Gloria could hear the crashing waves if she focused. 

Her vision was back now, but her body felt numb. The way her father looked at her was beyond frightening. He would have killed her without a second thought if he hadn’t woken up.

Whatever it was that plagued him was now as much a part of her as it was him. 

Guts didn’t come back for three days and for three days Gloria didn’t budge from her spot on the floor. The wood started to feel like it was sinking into her skin, filling her with splinters and drawing more blood. Her hand had stopped bleeding, but it only brought her discomfort. She liked to imagine the splinters in her skin drawing more blood until she was surrounded by a pool of it. Floating in a sea of red until she’d drifted far away. 

But there were no splinters and there was no blood. She was just a girl without a dream lying on the floor. Her stomach tightened in hunger and her lips dried of thirst, but it made her feel so very alive. Gloria’s father must have felt this way from his burdens. Horribly alive. She liked the feeling. She liked that it made her feel. 

Her father came back after three days of lying on the floor. He crouched over her with sorrowful eyes and lifted her weightless body, gently setting her on the bed. He fetched her water and made her food. Gloria could tell that through it all, he still feared her eyes. He feared them three days ago and he feared them now. Oddly, it made her feel good. It made her feel powerful. 

Guts ran a finger, a finger made of flesh, through her silver hair, pushing it past her ear, “I’m so sorry, Gloria.”

The sadness in his voice formed knots in her chest. She wanted to cry, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

“Why did you leave?” she whispered, voice still hoarse. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. 

He repeated himself for hours on end until Gloria grew sick of the sound of his voice.


	2. The Woman with the Wheel

When Gloria turned ten, her father took her to the kingdom for the first time. She spent all her life working at home or playing by the water, teaching herself to use a crossbow or aimlessly swinging a wooden sword. The kingdom was a mystery to her and she’d assumed that’s where her father went when he left for often month-long periods at a time. She never knew what he was off doing or if he’d come back, but whatever it was had to take place in the kingdom. There was nowhere else for him to go. He’d always told her the world was empty save for the kingdom. 

“Really? The kingdom?” Gloria was filled with excitement. 

“It’s about time you see something outside this dreadful house,” he grinned at her, as much of a grin that he could manage. 

Her father still dreamt every night of monsters and other cruel things. He’d aimed his anguish at her many times after that one night, but none were quite as dreadful. 

It took a day to travel to the kingdom, which Gloria learned was called Midland, but she didn’t mind the walk. She felt at peace with the air tangling through her hair, lifting it to make it look as though she was flying. 

Just as they crossed the top of a hill, the magnificence of the white walls blessed her vision. She could see the top of the palace peek out from behind its constraints, beckoning her forward. 

“Look, father!” she called, running ahead with a sudden burst of adrenaline. 

She didn’t look back to see if her father was behind her, only laughed at the sheer joy she felt from seeing such a place. A place she thought might not have been real at all. 

The breeze picked up and brushed through her black dress, lifting the hem and cascading around her ankles. Gloria felt the wind pick her up and carry her through the blue sky. She was flying, flying toward the palace. 

She ran faster and faster, blue eyes focusing in on the details of the bricks in the white walls. She didn’t need a path to guide her; she knew where she was headed. 

A galiant brown hawk came to fly beside her, letting out a victorious screech and eyeing her curiously. Its feathers ruffled in the wind and its eyes focused in on the palace. It had an air of confidence. Of purpose. Gloria wished to be that hawk. To find her purpose and to pursue it relentlessly. To fly on wings made of sheer power. 

“Gloria!” her father was calling her. 

He’d caught up with her and stood breathless at her side. Gloria stopped running, but couldn’t drop her smile, couldn’t stop her blue eyes from following the hawk. 

Guts caught what drew her attention and sneered viciously, tugging at her arm and pulling her down the path. They were almost at the gates. 

“Don’t you go following hawks,” he growled, “They’re devious creatures. Don’t want to get yourself wrapped up in any trouble now, do you?”

His metal hand was digging into her wrist, twisting the skin into an unnatural position, “You’re hurting me.”

Guts stopped abruptly and kneeled down to meet her eyes. He flinched for a second when they locked gazes. Gloria didn’t dare look away. 

“Do not go running after hawks ever again,” his voice sounded like it did that one night: distressed. 

“Why does it ma-.”

“Promise me.”

“It’s just a hawk.”

“Promise me!”

His voice boomed, echoing through the clearing and tumbling down the hills. 

“Okay,” Gloria whimpered. 

Guts didn’t say anything else, only kept walking. Gloria followed closely behind him, but couldn’t help searching for the hawk. She saw it in the distance, perched on the top of the palace, head held proudly to the sky. 

Midland was stunning, beyond stunning, in Gloria’s eyes. Everything was pure and clean and orderly. The people walked with structure, working mechanically. It was as if the whole kingdom was calling for her, telling her to take her place among them. To rise up to be something more. 

“We’re going to stay here for a week. I’ll give you some money so you can shop if you want,” Guts said. 

“Are you going somewhere?” 

“I have some work to do.” 

Gloria nodded and turned her attention back to the people working in the streets. There were stalls upon stalls filled with food, spices, and odd trinkets that begged to be observed. She waited until after they’d settled in an inn and Guts had left to go wherever his mysterious work had called him. 

Then she went back out to the streets with a humble coin purse wrapped around her belt. 

The first stall that caught her eye was a tailor, a strong looking man with a kind face, who beckoned her forward. 

“I haven’t seen your face around here before,” he smiled, rummaging through a rack of clothes. 

“I’m visiting with my father,” Gloria smiled, “It’s my first time at the kingdom.”

“First time!” the man bellowed, “Well then I’ll give you a gift! To celebrate!”

“Oh no, that’s really alright. I can pay.” 

“I insist. We wouldn’t want you emptying your coin purse too quickly on your first visit.”

Gloria giggled as the man held up a pale, purple dress lined in silver embroidery. The colors lightened and darkened as she raked her eyes over the extravagance before her. It looked too expensive to be given away as a mere gift to a foreign girl. 

“I think this color goes perfectly with your eyes,” he said, handing the dress over to her. 

“I can’t take this! It looks fit for a princess.”

“Precisely.” 

Before Gloria could argue any further, the man turned his back to her and tended to another customer. 

The dress was perfect for her, she agreed, and the man didn’t seem to be changing his mind, so she found the nearest alley and tugged the gown on overtop her other dress, thankful that she’d worn something thin. 

Tugging her hair from the neckline, Gloria traveled further down the street, happening upon jewelry makers, bakers, writers, and more. The sun was finally beginning to set, dawning a rustic orange glow over the streets when she stumbled upon a fortune teller’s booth. 

An old woman sat behind a single wooden table enclosed by a tent, both of which were dressed with odds and ends, alluring trinkets that had obvious stories to tell. When Gloria approached rather hesitantly, the woman only waved her forward. 

“Come closer, child,” she said, her voice feeble, “I don’t bite.”

Upon closer inspection, the old woman was sitting by a spinning wheel, working her bony fingers over long strings of thread that danced over the cobblestone. 

“What is it you sell?” Gloria asked. 

“Well, I sell many things,” the woman chuckled, “I sell the future, though it comes at a price. I sell the world’s secrets in the form of clutter. But mostly, I just sit here and weave.”

“What are you weaving?” Gloria leaned over the table to get a closer look at the wheel. 

“I weave fate.” 

“Fate?”

“Yes, child. Every string I weave is tied to a person who approaches my stall. That’s a lot of people, dear, when you consider how long I’ve been sitting by my wheel.”

Gloria felt drawn to this woman who wove fate. Her smile was oddly familiar. 

“Could you sell me my fate?” Gloria asked. 

“Why of course. I’m weaving it right now.”

Gloria looked at the woman’s fingers, which never stopped working the wheel. She plucked the string off as she said her last word and handed it over the table. Gloria’s fingers only got to brush over the string before the wind picked up and carried it off down the street toward the palace. 

“Oh no,” Gloria sighed. 

“How unfortunate,” the woman’s voice showed no hint of remorse. 

“For your troubles,” Gloria said, setting three gold coins on the table. 

The woman nodded at her and went back to her wheel as Gloria set back to the inn. Her father hadn’t come back yet, even though the night was in full bloom. She stripped off her black dress and slipped the purple one back on only to look at herself in the mirror. She did indeed look stunning in the color and so much paleness made her eyes even more striking. 

Gloria smiled. She felt like herself. Like she had found herself. And she thought that she was someone who had more to offer than what a single glance implied. 

“I do have a purpose,” she told herself, standing strong with her fists clenched, “I will learn to fly and they will all look at me from the ground in awe.” 

She bounced on her bed and rolled over to her back so she could see out the window, “They’ll never see me coming.” 

Just outside her window, a hawk sat on the roof, its yellow eyes meeting hers. Neither of them turned away.


	3. Throwing Knives

Guts didn’t return the next morning. Gloria took it upon herself to interpret his absence as a means to explore the kingdom more. She brushed out her new purple dress and combed her fingers through her silver hair, unaware that she’d fallen asleep from staring at the hawk for too long. It was gone now, sadly. 

That night she’d dreamed of flying with the hawk again, though this time she got to land on the top of the palace too. All the people were below her, bumbling about. The only thing she could see clearly was the clouds moving slowly overhead. One day she’d fly past them, too. Then she’d be able to see everything. The whole world would rest in her fingers. 

This time, Gloria took a different route through town. She waved at the tailor when passing by, who gave her an approving nod. This side of town was mainly full of food stalls, the scents easing her muscles and her mind. She bought a croissant and ate it while walking aimlessly, simply taking in the sights. 

Eventually, the stalls thinned out and the people lessened. She was in a regular part of town. The street weren’t filled with color, just a bland gray. Voices came from the shadows, but Gloria didn’t fear them. That is, until a knife flew past her head, nicking a few strands of her precious hair. 

She gasped. 

“I told you to be careful, idiot,” one of the voices sighed, surprisingly calm and oddly young. 

Gloria looked down the alley where the blade came from only to face two boys barely older than herself. One was tall and dark while the other oozed mischief. The latter spotted the blade at the edge of the street and darted toward it. 

“Are you alright?” the tall boy asked. 

He was broad, strong-looking, but his movements were gentle. 

“I’m fine,” Gloria said, straightening her posture, “Why are you throwing knives around?”

“I’m not,” the boy pointed to his friend who was walking back to them, “Jett is.”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to come down this way,” Jett said, sneaking up behind Gloria and turning sneakily back to his friend’s side, “Wanna try?”

Jett held out a small throwing knife, the blunt end facing forward. Gloria looked him up and down, then breathed out and grabbed the knife. 

She turned to the end of the alley, “Where am I aiming?”

“Wherever you want, I guess,” Jett shrugged. 

Gloria looked around, trying to find a competent target. There was nothing in the street, but her eye was drawn to a sign hanging above an empty pub. The Prowling Wolf, it was called. The sign was carved into a simple grey wolf. Gloria smiled. 

She held the throwing knife out in front of her, aiming it up at the wolf. The knife was part of her arm now, an extension growing out of her fingernails. It traveled back past her chest and she twisted to follow it. The metal was cool on her fingertips and she let the feeling drive the knife sideways and out of her hand. It flew through the air like the lone hawk to the palace and drove itself deep into the neck of the wolf. Gloria could practically hear the whimper it made when the knife met its flesh. 

“Woah,” Jett said. 

She turned to them with a smug face and noticed their surprised reactions. 

“You practice, don’t you,” the unnamed tall man said. 

“No,” Gloria tried to hide her excitement, “That was my first time.” 

“I’m Angus,” the tall man said, holding out a hand. 

She took it, still feeling the metal chill her fingers, “I’m Gloria.” 

Her grip was tight, but not constricting. She wanted to show she had some power in her. 

“Are you from here?” Jett asked, shaking out of his awe, “I haven’t seen you around.”

“No,” Gloria shook her head, “I’m just visiting.”

“I hope you stick around longer,” Jett put his hands on his hips, “You’re invited to join our army.”

Gloria raised an eyebrow, “What?”

“Ignore him,” Angus swatted his friend back, “He thinks he’s going to be some cool mercenary one day. All he’s good for is throwing knives into the dirt.”

Jett pouted, “I will be a mercenary! Just wait and see.”

Gloria was at a loss for words. 

“Have you heard of the White Hawks?” Jett asked.

“What’s that?”

“They were a super cool mercenary group that put an end to the hundred-year war.”

Gloria cocked her head. She’d never heard of the White Hawks or the hundred-year war. Now that she was pondering things she’d never heard of, she realized she didn’t know much at all. Her father hadn’t taught her anything besides how to cook and clean. He said that’s all she needed to know. 

“What’s that look for?” Angus asked. 

“I’ve never heard of the hundred-year war,” Gloria shrugged. 

“What!” both boys exclaimed, Jett a bit more enthusiastically. 

“You’re strange,” Jett murmured. 

Gloria followed Jett and Angus around all day. By the time the sun began to set she would say they were friends. Her first friends. She’d never known anyone other than her father. She’d never known anything outside her cottage by the waterfall. Jett and Angus made her feel normal even if they kept telling her she wasn’t. 

They ran through more empty streets and threw around more knives, leaving their mark on the town. Jett talked more about his army, his dream of being on the battlefield and defeating his enemies with stealth and intelligence. Angus said his dream was to follow Jett, to support his allies. 

Gloria told them she wanted to fly. Jett and Angus laughed at her and she brushed them off. No matter what response she received, all she saw in the back of her mind is her hair ruffling in the wind and her eyes focused on her target. 

“It’s late,” she sighed. 

They had made their way back to the center of town where the stalls were all empty and swaying in the breeze. 

“Yeah,” Angus said. 

“I should probably go back.”

“You’ll meet us tomorrow, right?” Jett asked. 

Gloria nodded and they all smiled at each other as a way of saying goodbye. 

Her father was there when she got back to their room. His shoulders looked tight and there were new scratches littering his arms. 

“You’re back late,” his lips were drawn in a tired smile, an attempt at being welcoming. 

“Sorry,” she said, walking to her bed. 

She was stopped when Guts turned to face her, only to freeze, his elbows locking and his jaw clenched shut. Gloria met his gaze, his single eye wild and afraid. 

“Is everything okay, father?” 

“Get rid of it.”

Gloria scrunched her eyebrows, confused, “Get rid of what?”

“That dress looks horrible with your eyes.”

He was lunging at her now, grabbing her shoulder and pulling at it, drawing her toward him. 

“Stop it!” she shrieked silently. 

It was a dress. A simple, pale dress with silver embroidery. There was no harm that came with fabric and Gloria couldn’t understand why it was so alarming. She pushed her father back and stepped toward the door. 

“It’s just a dress! Why is that so wrong?”

“Anything but purple,” Guts grabbed her wrist and tried to tear the sleeve off, but Gloria twisted her hand back just in time to escape his grasp. 

“I am your father and you will listen to me!” 

Gloria wasn’t hearing the words coming from his lying lips and ran out the door, through the tavern, and back into the streets where she sought out the comfort of the back alley. The alley she met Jett and Angus. It was more of a home than any place she’d ever been before. 

She settled on the wall and fell down to cobblestone. There were no tears to shed. Her father’s outbursts had become too regular to have a reaction to. Instead she sat there, waiting for the night to end and for Jett and Angus to come back. 

“You didn’t go home.”

It seemed that they hadn’t either.


	4. Behelit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a day late. I was busy all day yesterday. Anyway, things are going to really pick up after this chapter so I hope you enjoy!

“It’s not important.”

Jett kept pushing her, desperate to know everything he didn’t. Why she came back didn’t matter. 

“Why didn’t you go home? Huh?” she pushed back. 

“It’s not important,” Jett muttered. 

“Exactly.” 

The boys could tell she was on edge, but she ignored their concerns and led them back through the maze of streets. She wanted to go look at the palace. All of the stalls were empty, but she liked not having anyone else glaring down the back of her neck. 

“Where are we going?” Angus asked. 

“To see the castle.”

“We can’t go in, we’re commoners,” Jett said. 

“We can see it from a distance.”

They stood by the last stall, the fortune teller’s stall. Surprisingly, she was still there, spinning her thread and humming a tune to the breeze. None of the trinkets were on her table anymore. They were all replaced by a singular stand holding a peculiar necklace.

“You’re back,” the woman cooed. 

“What’s that?” Gloria pointed to the necklace. 

“A necklace,” she said.

“Why does it look like that?” Jett murmured, peering at it. 

It was so silver that it shone blue in the moonlight and the strange egg-shape was nothing compared to the scrambled facial features on its pale surface. Something about this necklace whispered to her to take hold of it, to twirl it around her palm and raise it to the skies. 

“I’ll buy it from you,” she blurted out, “How much?”

“Oh, child,” the woman smiled, “You can have it for free. You did lose your thread, didn’t you? This will make up for it.” 

Gloria took up the rope attached to the egg and pulled it over her head, lightly fingering the surface as if fell on her chest. 

“It’s called a behelit,” the woman grinned. 

“A behelit?” 

“A key to dreams. Stories say that every behelit is meant for a specific person.”

“So this one’s meant for Gloria?” Angus asked. 

“Only time will tell, I suppose.”

Gloria couldn’t take her eyes off the silver egg and after looking at it for so long, she noticed one of the eyes on its surface open, revealing a pale blue gaze underneath. She dropped it back to her chest and stared out at the palace in the distance. 

“I need a pair of pants,” she said suddenly. 

“What? Why?” Jett questioned. 

“And a sword,” Gloria turned back down the street and headed back to the stalls. 

“Where are we going now?” Jett huffed, reluctantly following her, “I thought you wanted to see the castle.”

“I told you,” she sighed, “I need pants and a sword.”

The amount of empty stalls began to multiply. 

“You aren’t planning on stealing them are you?” Angus caught up to them. 

“We’re an army, aren’t we?” Gloria stopped in her tracks and turned to face them. 

Jett and Angus met her all-seeing glare. Her eyes were full of passion, full of dreams. The way she stood embodied power despite her small frame and weak arms. Gloria could see the awe reflected in their expression. She felt powerful. She felt complete. 

“Aren’t we?” she hardened her tone. 

“Ye- yeah,” Jett’s lips pulled into a smile. 

“Sometimes armies have to do things they don’t want.”

“Yeah,” the stiffness in Angus’ shoulder washed away. 

“It’s good to get the practice while we’re ahead.”

Gloria managed to find a pair of white silk pants to go with her dress and jumped over to a stall of swords to steal a slightly curved sabre. She grinned and unsheathed it. After donning her new silk trousers, she cut the bottom of her dress off and tucked what remained under the belt that held the sheath. 

Jett stole a set of throwing knives, a dagger, and a shortsword which all magically fit into his belt. Gloria could see the mischief in his smile, the enjoyment in the ease of his movement. He winked at her as he finished looting what he deemed worth the effort, then went to her side. 

Angus stole a mace, not able to carry much else. It was fitting when considering his size, but didn’t suit his personality. When he noticed her curiosity, he only said that he wanted to get the dirty work done as quickly as possible. He joined her once he was done too. 

“I know I am only staying here until the end of the week, but I promise to come visit when I can,” Gloria said, facing her friends. 

“Then we can be a real army,” Jett laughed. 

“A real army,” Angus pondered. 

“Yes,” Gloria smiled, taking the behelit in her palm, “We will show the world that common people are more than they are willing to believe.”


	5. Band of the Hawk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to post twice today. The last chapter was really short and I read over this one and got excited so here it is!

That night, after she revealed her passions, Gloria tucked the behelit beneath her shirt and stomped into her room at the inn to exclaim one singular thing. Her father was there, head in his hands with his sword at his side. He looked up at her with a tired eye, but she didn’t let him speak. 

“Teach me how to swordfight.”

Guts didn’t mention her changed appearance or how she got the sabre, but promised to teach her to wield a sword the moment they returned home. Gloria knew it was his way of making things up to her. 

For the rest of the week she went to the outskirts of the city with Jett and Angus to practice their brawling skills. Gloria was surprisingly talented for never having done it before and easily had them both on their backs in seconds. 

Her father was gone day and night to tend to whatever secret business she wasn’t allowed to know about. She didn’t mind not knowing. It meant he didn’t ridicule her for seemingly unimportant things. 

They returned to the cottage by the waterfall with equally heavy hearts. Guts’ heart had been heavy for all of Gloria’s life, but it was in this moment that being separated from the only two people to ever make her feel, the only place that ever made her feel, left her chest in the cobblestones of Midland. 

When the sun rose the day after returning, Gloria was woken by the sound of her father’s sword slicing through the air. She dressed with intensity not necessary for such a miniscule task and grabbed her sabre to join her father by the waterfall. 

She unsheathed the blade and pointed it at her father’s back as his own cut through the earth. He turned his head and before Gloria could react, he brought his blade up and knocked her sword to the ground. She was lucky it didn’t break. 

“Your stance is wrong,” he stated, going to retrieve her blade, then setting it back in her hand. 

Gloria watched his glance linger on the scar across her palm. He took hold of her shoulders, this time gently, and twisted them so she faced sideways, then held up her arm so the blade pointed forward. 

“Make yourself a small target,” his voice was more confident. 

“Easier to dodge?”

“Harder to hit.”

Gloria smiled and lunged forward. 

Their blades composed a complex melody for years. Guts’ sword was sharp, rigid, quick, and entirely forceful. His motions were earthy and rough, loud and brash. Gloria learned to swing her sword with grace and fluidity. The air split as she brought the silver through it, making it her own. To fight was to dance and her every move was a step from a ballet: skillfully elegant. 

As her dance continued, slowly reaching its finale, she grew from a girl to a woman. A woman with power not only in her stance or her eyes, but in her actions. Over her years of constant swinging of swords, she did find time to visit Jett and Angus. They’d made some coin doing basic mercenary work which her father was unaware of, and they’d taken up a few stranded souls to make a quaint band of mercenaries to do the bidding of political figures behind the backs of the public. 

One day when Gloria’s father brought his sword down on her, she raised her own at such an angle that she was able to deflect him, to throw him off balance. He stumbled backwards and looked up at her with surprise. 

She smiled, “I was thinking of going up Midland for a while.” 

“Midland?” her father regained his balance, “Why?”

“I’m no longer a child,” Gloria sheathed her sabre, “I should be able to decide where I go without my father’s approval every time.”

“Very well,” he said. 

So she went. 

Jett and Angus had set up a camp a small ways outside the kingdom where the band spent their days. They always celebrated when Gloria returned. 

“I was wondering when you’d be coming back,” Jett slapped her playfully on the shoulder. 

“You know I can’t stay away for long,” she chuckled. 

That night they set up a huge firepit and drank the best ale they had. A man named Connor raised his glass to her return and they laughed into the night as if there were no problems in the world. 

She would have to go up to Midland the next morning to meet with a politician named Yazor who had a task for her band of mercenaries. A year ago the Tudor Empire had begun mysteriously attacking Midland territory, assassinating powerful figures and enticing war. This was how Gloria learned of the hundred-year war and what could possibly be a continuation of the conflict. 

Yazor had asked for her to be alone. So she went by herself against Jett’s multiple please to consider having someone there in the shadows. She was perfectly capable of handling any traps herself. 

The idea of leaving Midland’s dirty work to a band of mercenaries was almost strictly taboo considering their past relationship with the Band of the Hawk during the hundred-year war. This was how she learned of their legacy and demise. It was unfortunate. She would have loved to revive the name. Gloria used it in her head where no one could critique her. To her, they were the Band of the Hawk. She may not know those who came before her, but she resonated with their legacy, their purpose. She was the hawk and her people were there to follow her to the end. 

“The Tudor Empire is planning to attack a camp of ours on the outskirts of their territory,” Yazor started as Gloria took a seat across from his desk. 

“How do you know this?” she asked, twirling a strand of hair through her fingers. 

“It’s none of your concern,” he said, “The only thing you need to worry about is attacking them first. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” 

“Is that too much for a woman to handle?”

Gloria glared at him, her startling blue eyes widening as if she was targeting her prey. Yazor coughed and averted his gaze. 

“We can do it tonight. Just tell me where to go.”

“You know I can’t have the others on the board knowing about your involvement in our conflict,” Yazor stood up from his seat and began pacing around the circular room. 

He was trying to seem in control of her. Seem like he had the upper hand. He was desperate to be a man of power despite having to turn to taboo solutions for royal problems. Gloria could see it all in his eyes, hear it all in his wavering voice. He was unsure and an unsure man did not have any power. 

“I’ve never left any trace of my existence,” she hummed, leaning back in her chair. 

“Both the kingdom and the people are starting to become suspicious,” Yazor gradually came in closer, “You need to be more careful.”

‘That’s not my problem,” Gloria stood, “I’m doing what you ask without revealing myself. You should have thought more carefully of the consequences of your actions.”

Yazor didn’t say anything, but stopped moving. 

“The job will be done as long as you pay.”

“I don’t pay until you’ve gone through with it.”

“Very well.”

With the last word and more detailed instructions, she left the room. Jett and Angus were waiting anxiously by the palace walls when she returned, a satisfied smile on her lips. The politicians of Midland were fearful of everything they didn’t have in their hold, which wasn’t much. Gloria enjoyed seeing Yazor’s wary expressions as she stared into their eyes. The man who looks away first is always the more feeble. 

“You made it back in one piece,” Jett said. 

“Have I ever not?” Gloria began to lead them back to their camp. 

“I’m just afraid one day they’ll lock us all up. You know they don’t do well with mercenaries.” 

“And they’re the ones who decided to involve themselves in a mess they can’t clean up.”

Angus hummed in agreement, “What is it they want us to do this time?”

“Wipe out a camp. Tonight.”

“Tonight!” Jett huffed, throwing his hands in the air, “They can’t keep expecting us to do things last minute!”

“Yet we always deliver,” Gloria sighed. 

“That’s why they keep coming back,” Angus said. 

“At least it pays well,” Jett grumbled. 

“That’s debatable.”

That night, Gloria explained it all to the band. Group A would charge in the front and cause a scene. Group B would sneak through the back and set fire to every last tent. They couldn’t charge if they didn’t have any supplies. 

After resting for a short while, they all readied their horses and split up. They had to arrive at their location by the next night. Angus led the first group and Gloria had to admit she did feel worry for her friend. He was entirely capable of looking after himself, but she knew he had a tendency to put himself after his men. 

Sure enough, by nightfall, they were hidden in the woods behind the enemy camp, looking on as the men clad in black danced around torches in early victory. Gloria heard the clanging of swords and the shouting of dying men within minutes, and once the attention was turned to the front of the camp, she lit her torch and watched as the others followed suit.

“Charge!” she yelled, kicking her horse forward and flying through the back of the camp, letting her flame catch the ruined fabric of each tent she passed. 

The enemy never had a chance of success. They were wildly overwhelmed. When both groups of the band met in the center of the camp, there were only a few soldiers left standing. A few were alive, but already tangled in the dirt. 

Gloria hopped off her horse, Jett jumping behind her. The man in the center of the captured enemies was clearly the leader of the platoon, his face stoic and his stature taught. 

“Who sent you?” his voice boomed, “I thought mercenaries only fought for themselves.”

“Mercenaries fight for money,” Jett said, relaxing his posture into one of easy confidence.   
The platoon leader shot him a look, “Midland can’t win this time around. Your efforts are worthless.”

Gloria unsheathed her sword and the behelit wrapped around her neck trembled. 

“I thought Midland didn’t mingle with low lives like you anymore. After Griffith-”

Whatever the man hoped to say was lost with his head. It tumbled to the ground and was then crushed by its body. The remaining Tudor soldiers gasped, shouted, struggled to escape. There was only one who stayed where they were standing. 

A girl, a young girl, with emotionless eyes. She was holding a sword, albeit wrong, but holding it nonetheless. There was blood staining the blade and Gloria eyed her curiously at the sight of an inexperienced girl with the willingness to kill. 

“Who might you be?” Gloria approached her.

The girl’s sword didn’t rise, but didn’t drop either, “No one.”

“No one?”

“I was taken prisoner when these hellions raided my village.”

“I take it you have a name?”

“Wasn’t ever given one.”

The girl had a fierce look in her eyes. It was faulty, but determined. Gloria liked that look. 

“Make up a name. You’re coming with us.”

The girl lowered her sword and gave a slight gasp. Gloria turned back to her horse with a hidden smile. She could always tell what someone wanted. 

“Kill the rest of them.”

Rae: that was the name the girl chose. She’d settled in fine once they’d gotten back to their camp and Gloria had sent a letter to Midland of their success. Gloria watched Jett hand the girl a mug of ale as she was joining them around the big fire in the center of camp. 

“So,” Jett said, “You were taken hostage?”

Rae sighed, “I’m from Morshire. It’s a small town right outside the Tudor kingdom.”

The group visibly settled in, some ready for a story, others tuning her out. 

“There was a man there named Jorah, a preacher, who started speaking against the Tudor ideals. He would stand in the middle of town on a wooden box and instead of preaching the word of God, preached of our inevitable betrayal of the Tudor Empire,” Rae looked into her ale at her reflection, anger teeming in her eyes, “We all loved him. We all believed his words. But we live so close to Tudor that the few who still stood loyal spread the news of our rising rebellion. We didn’t stand a chance when their army came in and burned everything to the ground.”

“So why take you? I would think they wouldn’t spare a woman,” Connor sipped his ale. 

“I was taken because I am a woman,” Rae scoffed, finally succumbing to her drink. 

Gloria didn’t speak much that night. She didn’t have much to say. Instead she chose to think. She thought about the way Rae kept stealing glances at her. The way her eyes held so much anger, yet underneath it all was a sense of relief. Gloria took that to be her way of thanks. 

Then she thought about something the platoon leader said to her in his final moments, or rather, tried to say to her. After Griffith. Those two words plagued her mind. Who was Griffith? And why did the name sound so familiar? A vague memory of the name being muttered through the night as the stars danced outside her window was the only thing she could make out about him. 

“Jett?” she called. 

Jett turned his head, boisterous laugh disrupted. 

“Who is Griffith?”

Jett shrugged, obviously confused. 

“The platoon leader said his name in reference to why mercenaries no longer have a tasteful relationship with Midland.”

Jett thought for a second and shrugged again, “I don’t know. Never heard of him.”

Gloria hummed and stood up, heading back to her tent, “Drink well. I’m turning in for the night.”

She laid on her bed, hands tucked under her silver hair, staring up at the spot where the two ends of the tent meet. A small flame flickered by her side. It was the only sound besides that of her celebrating comrades. 

“Griffith. Griffith. Griffith,” she whispered the name over and over and over, saying it slightly different each time as if it would somehow reveal what is was she couldn’t remember. It rolled off her tongue deliciously and she thought that perhaps it was someone she’d met before. 

Then, when the name travelled through the tent and licked at the fire, she sat up, Griffith,” she whispered one last time, the name echoing off the fabric walls. 

The whisper of the word was all too familiar. It wasn’t the man behind the name that haunted her, but the manner of which it was said. For each moment she muttered the name Gloria went back to her childhood in the house by the waterfall when the sky had donned its black blanket and the only presence she could feel was that of her father sleeping by the window. 

“Griffith,” he would murmur in his sleep, his muscles tense and his skin glistening with sweat. 

“Griffith,” he would growl in his sleep, eyebrows furrowed in distrust and throat torn with anger.

“Griffith,” he would sob in his sleep, dreams filled with horrors and memories made by trauma. 

He’d known this Griffith she so desperately wanted to meet.


	6. Griffith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm lowkey super excited because the next chapter is my absolute favorite.

Gloria was back in Midland the next day and she was speaking to Yazor again. He was impressed with her accomplishments, but clearly wanted to hide it. She wasn’t listening to what he had to say because none of it was new instructions. He was rambling while she sat in the chair by his desk twirling a strand of hair through her finger. 

“Can I ask you something?” she raised her voice. 

Yazor glanced at her, interested. 

“Why is it Midland doesn’t trust mercenaries?”

Yazor snickered, “You know that quite well. We had a run in with a group at the end of the hundred-year war who turned to crime to satisfy their primal needs.”

Gloria glared at him, “Who was the group?”

“I really shouldn’t be talking about this.”

Gloria’s eyes widened in intimidation. 

“The White Hawks. They rose through the ranks quickly. Too quickly for a mere band of mercenaries. We should have known they had ulterior motives.” 

“What did they do?”

“Look,” Yazor whipped around to face her, “I can’t talk about this. I don’t even know the whole story.”

“Fine,” Gloria sighed and left the chamber. 

When she made it out the palace, she noticed that Rae decided to accompany Jett and Angus on the trip. Typically, the rest of the band wandered around town, drinking and whoring.

Her face must have gave away her surprise because Jett shrugged and said, “She insisted.”

Rae scoffed, “I feel like I owe it to you. You not only spared my life, but saved it.”

Gloria’s eyes met hers, “Do what you must.”

“I want to be your sword!”

Jett and Angus tried to hold back a chuckle. 

“Have you ever swung a sword before last night?” Gloria asked playfully. 

“No,” there was a slight blush on Rae’s tan cheeks, “But I wasn’t afraid to pick one up and use it.”

Gloria smiled, “I know.”

She saw the gleam in her eyes. A gleam as sharp as a blade. Never had she been more sure that one of her men would give their life for her in a moment. It was strange considering she almost killed her, but somehow honorable. 

“So what are we doing today?” Angus broke their eye contact. 

“Whatever you want,” Gloria waved them off, “You get a day off.”

“Really?” Jett sounded excited. 

“Really,” Gloria reassured, “I have things to do.”

“Like what?” Rae asked. 

“Why don’t you join me and find out.” 

The only thing she had on her mind was Griffith. She needed to find out who he was. For some unspoken reason, it was her duty, her purpose. The way the platoon leader had said his name sounded like he was related to the White Hawks. All she knew about them was that they were the reason for Midland’s distrust of mercenaries. 

Naturally, she could go talk to her father. All she could hear since last night was him whispering Griffith’s name over and over until it began to sound like a lullaby. 

First, though, she went to a blacksmith to get Rae a proper sword. 

“You can’t do this for me!” she exclaimed, “You’ve already done too much.”

“If you are going to be my sword, you’re going to need one of your own.”

She quieted after that, holding her new blade in her hand as if it were a part of her. Gloria grinned at the sight of her comfort, her content with the weapon. Rae held it silently, the thin edge slicing air at the slightest movement. 

Gloria led Rae from tavern to tavern, shop to shop, stand to stand just to ask one singular question, “Have you heard of the White Hawks?”

It was increasingly obvious that Rae was becoming irritated by the monotonous nature of the task. Gloria knew she expected something exciting to come about from following her, but this question was all she cared for. She needed to know who Griffith was. 

To her, Griffith was a drug. She’d heard his name for the first time only hours ago, but she’d already become addicted. It was as if this Griffith was a part of her. A part she’d forgotten. A part she repressed. A part she needed to be whole. 

“That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

Gloria couldn’t remember how many taverns they’d been to at this point. The man behind the counter was in his late-forties, roughly the same age as her father. His face wasn’t memorable, but she didn’t think she could forget the only person to have an answer to her question. 

“You know the White Hawks?” Rae was clearly relieved as well. 

“Of course I do,” the man said it as though they were commonly known, as if they hadn’t traveled throughout all of Midland. “I was part of them.”

Both Gloria and Rae gasped. 

“You?” Gloria scoffed, “You were part of the White Hawks?”

“A long time ago, sure, but yes. I was,” the man sighed and his eyes dimmed. 

“No one will tell me about them,” Gloria felt like a child asking so desperately. 

“That’s because our leader was taken hostage. Right after that we were ambushed by the Midland army. There wasn’t much hope for us without him. So I left. I didn’t see much of a reason to stay.”

“What about them was so special?” Gloria pushed. 

“Our leader rose through the Midland ranks at a godly speed. He was a commoner, like the rest of us, but was so close to becoming a king before- well, you know.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know a man named Griffith?” she was edging closer to the man.

The man laughed heartily, “Why, that was our leader. What a man he was.”

“He’s dead?” her fingers curled over the wood of the counter.

“I assume so. When I came back to Midland after leaving the Hawks I heard he was so mangled that he didn’t even look like a man anymore.”

Gloria was so deeply enraged at the idea of not being able to meet him, “Tell me about him.”

“Why are you so passionate about a dead man?”

“I need to know who he was.” her voice conquered the room as everything else went silent.

The man seemed frightened by her tone. Frightened of her stature and her eyes. Gloria noticed recognition in his expression. 

“He had one of those,” the man pointed to the behelit dangling from her neck. 

Gloria ran a thumb over one of the closed eyes, “A behelit?”

“Yeah, that’s what it’s called,” the man was backing away, “Only it was red.”

Rae tugged on Gloria’s sleeve. The anxious feeling in Gloria’s chest subsided with her touch and she stepped away from the counter. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she straightened out her white shirt, “and thank you.”

With the last word, she left the tavern, Rae following at her heels. Griffith was dead. Of course he was. But she’d gotten her answer. She knew who Griffith was. He was a man like her. A man seeking to prove himself by showing the world he was more than a commoner. A man seeking to prove that he was more than he seemed. His dream had been cut short, but Gloria’s was still floating, no, soaring like the hawk she was meant to become. 

Yet there was still one question she couldn’t answer. How was it her father knew Griffith? And why was he so infuriated by his name?

“Why is Griffith so important to you?” Rae’s voice was barely above a whisper. 

“It’s not important.” 

Rae dropped the subject. They met Jett and Angus back at the camp without exchanging a word or a glance. Gloria kept the behelit between her fingers the entire way, letting the silver cool the rage in her veins. 

Jett tried to shove ale in her hands, but she wouldn’t let go of the behelit. She left the camp behind her in favor of her dimly lit tent. 

She could have sworn she saw the shape of a hawk outlined in the dark sky as the sounds of the camp started to hum and the fire started to burn brighter.


	7. Guts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this one a day early because I really love this chapter. I know it's far from perfect, but I had way too much fun writing it. 
> 
> If you're impatient, which I doubt you are, I have posted the whole work on Wattpad. My user is Stella_Grayy. I might end up posting the last chapter sooner than usual, I might not, I'm not sure yet. Anyway, enjoy!

The clang of swords. The gush of blood. The rumble of horses galloping. The adrenaline of battle was Gloria’s driving force. She relished in the feeling of her blade slicing through flesh, painting a river of rubies across the dying grass. 

Midland finally met Tudor in an outright battle and with the sheer size of Tudor’s army, there was no choice but to allow Gloria’s band of hawks to join the fight. She watched her target fall off his horse, crushed beneath the weight of his armor. 

A throwing knife flew past her ear the next moment and when Gloria turned to watch it, it lodged itself into the eye of an enemy. She whipped back around to meet the mischievous smile she knew by heart. Jett threw her a friendly wink and turned back to the battle. 

Angus smashed a man and his horse with a single blow of his mace. They both crumbled instantly, bones turned to dust on impact. It was Rae that really impressed her, though. The girl had become skilled with a sword in such a short time and her sharp tone made her an adequate leader. Glitters of her thin blade flashed throughout the bloodshed and whenever Gloria caught sight of her, she seemed confident while covered in blood. 

The Tudor commander stood in the center of the field, his sword extended into the air as his horse rose up. He was the embodiment of power. His armor was spotless, even in the midst of battle and his skin shone white. Gloria thought she caught a glimpse of something shiny on his neck. 

The thought crumbled when she felt her horse give out and it made a strangled sound. Someone had sliced through its leg. Gloria tumbled to the ground, catching herself on her hands and rolled away before her opponent could bring his sword down. 

She stood and faced him, “A woman?” he growled, a sick smile plastered on his face.

He threw his head back to laugh and Gloria stabbed him through the neck. He sputtered as blood gushed out from the wound in awful spurts. His eyes fearful, he fell. 

Gloria stole his horse and rode closer to the center of the field. Midland was winning now. The pile of Tudor bodies seemed enough to build a bridge all the way back to the palace. There was just the commander, taking blow after blow, but never falling down. 

As she got closer, she noticed the thing around his neck glitter again. That’s when it became familiar to her. 

“A behelit?” she grunted, charging forward, sword held taut like a lance. 

The commander had his back to her and as he brought his sword down on a trembling young boy, her sword found its way into the nook underneath his chest plate. He grunted, blood gushing from the cut. Gloria smiled in her victory. 

But the man didn’t fall. In fact, the wound closed itself and the man turned to face her with fierce eyes. 

Gloria gasped, barely dodging his sword as she fell to the ground once more. The battlefield was nearly still as she jumped to her feet, pointing her sword at her enemy. 

“We both know that little knife won’t do you any good, little girl,” the commander had a horrible smile. 

He stepped down from his horse and stood like a mountain, clearly sizing her up. When Gloria adjusted her sword and the behelit around her neck bounced with the movement, he inhaled sharply. 

“What’s this?” his voice was smooth and his own behelit seemed to mock her, “You and I aren’t so different.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gloria growled. 

“Maybe this will help you remember.”

The man started cackling, the power in his tone ripping at his throat. His body began to morph into something entirely inhuman. His shoulders rose above his head, snapping the binds of his chest plate. His legs widened, ripping away his trousers. His head sprouted horns which twisted for eternity. He was anything but a man. 

The soldiers still alive scrambled, shouting in terror. Some fled without hesitation while others simply stumbled back. It was only her own men that were brave enough to join Gloria’s side. 

“What the hell is that thing?” Jett yelled. 

Gloria only strengthened her stance and focused her eyes in on her prey. 

“Is that the commander?” Angus’ deep voice rumbled through the air. 

Gloria felt her behelit bounce back and forth in the wind. 

“What are we supposed to do?” Rae whimpered. 

Gloria twisted her footing and took off toward the demon, pointing her blade at its ankles. It had grown to be three times the size of a normal man. She heard the battle cries of her men behind her, but instead focused on the sound of the silver behelit singing melodies in the wind. 

She cried out as the demon’s hand swung down upon her and she thought that this must be her end. After years of training and gaining respect from a seemingly impossible ally, rising to become the leader she always felt she was, she was to be struck down by a demon. At least a demon is what it took to kill her. 

Then, there was stillness. There were no voices, no battlecries. No swinging swords. No dancing behelit. Everything was still. 

When Gloria looked up, the demon was missing its arm. It sat beside her, twitching in the grass. The demon was on its knees, a hunk of a blade stuck right through its middle. 

The band gave a collective gasp of wonder when the slab removed itself from the demon’s flesh. It fell into the ground to reveal the man standing behind it. 

Guts. 

Her father. 

He held the blade like he’d never left his last battle. Older now, he donned light wrinkles, but the scar across his nose and the energy pulsing from his remaining eye were a reminder that he was a warrior that couldn’t be defeated. 

Guts didn’t say anything, just stared into Gloria’s wild eyes for a moment before trailing his gaze down to what hung from her neck. An aura of rage seemed to emit from him, wrapping itself around her like it used to when she was young. As a girl, she wasn’t able to move under his wrath, but now she found she could lift her sword. 

He was walking towards her. Each step was like an earthquake. His flesh hand reached out to her. Gloria hoped it was a hand of comfort, just for a moment, before his fingers gripped the behelit. 

She gracefully swung her sword to the base of his neck. The two of them were close. Closer than they had been in years. Whatever reaction the band had to their position, she wasn’t listening. 

“Where did you get this?” his voice was soft but full of terror. 

“Back away or I’ll slit your throat,” her voice was easy but full of rage. 

He tried to rip the behelit off her neck, but Gloria grabbed his wrist with her free hand and swept underneath his arm to escape his grasp. She kept the end of her sword at his neck. 

“This is what you do when you’re gone?” he huffed and she could tell he was contemplating whether or not to simply take hold of her blade. 

“We both have our secrets, don’t we?”

Her father stayed silent. 

“Who’s Griffith?” her voice turned to a bite, echoing slightly in the clearing. 

Rae came up beside her, laying one hand on her pauldron. Gloria pushed her away. 

“Who’s Griffith?” she repeated. 

Guts’ eyes were fiery and his mouth was drawn back. 

“I see the way you look at me. Like I’m a monster. It’s because of him, isn’t it?” Gloria didn’t let her voice waver, “I remind you of him, don’t I?”

Then, Guts did take hold of her sword, his metal hand snapping it in two as if it was a twig. He charged at her, bringing his other hand down on her cheek. Gloria cried out and she saw Rae and Jett lunge for him. Guts easily threw them off, but she used their attack to swing her foot across his ankle, watching him fall to his hands and knees. 

She took Rae’s sword from her hand and pointed it at her father, “You’re coming with me and you’re going to talk.”

The camp was quiet when they got back. Midland gave those still alive their pay and returned in silence, the image of the demon man swimming in their minds. Gloria didn’t blame them for not celebrating. 

Guts sat in a battered chair on the far end of her tent. He was staring into nothing and Gloria began to wonder if he was starting to go blind in his remaining eye. She could sense that aura on him. The one from her childhood. The one of pure rage. 

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked and before she could answer he said, “How did you hide this?”

“I just-”

“How did you get that?” his eye focused in on her behelit. 

“An old woman in-”

“Don’t tell me a fortune teller gave it to you,” his voice was soft now, tired. 

Gloria didn’t speak. She met his eye with a knowing glance. 

“Damn. What did I do to deserve this?” he ran his hands over his face with a sigh. 

He was so weary. A man Gloria saw as powerful, too powerful, was breaking down in front of her. Whatever front he put up while she was young was gone now. 

“Who is Griffith?” her tone wasn’t intimidating, it was careful and desperate. 

Guts groaned, “I don’t want to remember that man. I gave him everything. I gave him my life. And he repays me by branding me human meat to serve to his godforsaken dream.”

“He was the leader of the White Hawks.”

“He was. I was one of his commanders.” 

“You fought with him.”

“I did. And then he killed us.”

“What?” Gloria’s voice was strengthening and her eyes were straining in the dark. 

“That behelit. He used it to kill us and become something inhuman.”

“Like the demon you killed.”

“No,” her father was seeing something behind his eye, “to say he’s a demon is too kindhearted.”

They sat together in silence. The pent up tension from the past seventeen years of Gloria’s life swirled around them, crawling in their ears and up their noses and under their eyes. She felt so much anger, so much hatred for the man in front of her. The man who knew nothing more than how to kill with a single blow. The man who knew nothing of love. 

“You’re heartless, you know?” she spat. 

“I know.”

“You nearly strangled me to death too many times to count.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“You look like him.”

“Like Griffith?”

“Like Griffith.”

“Huh,” Gloria sat back feeling victorious, “Perhaps you’re the one who turned me into him.”

Guts’ muscles visibly tensed and in the blink of an eye, he’d reached for his sword and swung it at his daughter. Gloria leaped to the side in time for him to crush her chair into splinters and unsheathed Rae’s sword, holding it up defensively. 

“You dare challenge me!” he howled, swinging the slab at her stomach. 

Gloria leaped backwards and out of the tent into the warm sun. The orange waves washed over her shoulders and illuminated her pale skin. She felt the rest of the camp start to bustle again, their whispers bouncing off the sides of their tents. 

She held her sword up as she watched her father destroy the fabric of her tent. The whole structure collapsed as Guts emerged from it, mouth curled into a snarl. The orange sky began to darken as a black mass started hovering over the sun. 

“No,” Guts growled, “No!”

Gloria wasn’t sure what he was worked up about, but took the opportunity to lunge forward and extend her sword toward his bare arms. He jumped out of the way at the last second, still obsessed with the eclipse in front of him. She grazed his arm, drawing the slightest bit of blood, but Guts kicked her square in the chest and sent her flying backwards. 

Her sword flew from her hand and landed in the grass a few feet away. She saw Rae gasp by her tent and Jett and Angus drew held their weapons cautiously. Rae ran up to her as Guts began to close in, grabbing her sword and holding it out to her. Gloria took the sword and pushed her away. 

“Stay out of this,” she warned, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

Guts charged at her, holding his slab over his shoulders. Gloria had trained with him for years; she knew his strategy. He brought the sword down on her with inhuman speed and she rolled to the side just as it sunk into the ground. She flipped the sword in her hand and shot it upwards so it stabbed through Guts’ arm. 

He did nothing but grunt and take Gloria’s sword in his hand, ripping it from her hold and snapping it in two. 

Gloria gasped as Guts stared her down. His eyes met her behelit once more and in the blink of an eye, he’d swung his sword down on her neck. 

She jumped back a bit, but wasn’t fast enough to keep up with his strength. The blade cut through her flesh, drawing a long, deep line of blood from her chest. The behelit’s rope was cut and the silver egg flew through the air. It seemed to slow time as Gloria watched it leave her while the blood gushed from her chest. There was shouting. She wasn’t listening, but heard it anyway. All she could focus on was the behelit leaving her. 

Guts had finally done it. He’d finally struck her down like he’d wanted to on that one fateful night. Gloria’s hit the ground hard. She felt her bones clatter. Guts was standing away from her now, victory oozing from his stance. 

She could feel Rae and Jett and Angus and Connor and the boy they picked up months ago and the rest of her soldiers staring, wanting to move, but too shocked to lift a muscle. 

The behelit. 

The behelit was rolling in front of her. 

One arm after the other, clawing into the dirt and pulling herself forward. 

The grass was stained red. 

Guts’ breath was heavy, she could feel it. 

The sun grew dimmer. 

Gloria propped herself up, surprised she could still sit up straight. 

The behelit. 

The behelit was sitting in front of her. 

She took the remains of the rope and tangled it in her fingers. 

She held it up to the sun. 

Guts’ eyes were enraged, she could feel it. 

The sun was nearly gone.

Gloria watched as the light swept over the behelit and disappeared. 

The behelit. 

Its face rearranged. 

Its eyes opened. 

It screamed. 

As tears streamed down the silver egg, the sky became painted with twisted faces and the ground morphed into a sea of silent lips and pleaful eyes. 

Gloria met her father’s gaze. 

He hadn’t killed her fast enough.


	8. Black Hawk

Gloria brought the behelit to her split open chest, letting the blood drip over it and turn it red. Its eyes were still open and it was still crying, though its tears had turned to blood too. 

The band was screaming behind her. Rae was running over the hills of faces with her sword in hand. Jett had four knives in his throwing hand and a dagger in the other. Angus raised his mace. Gloria turned, pain shooting through her body, to face what made them feel so threatened. 

A hoard of demons, all twisted and disfigured like the one she’d fought just earlier that day, had formed behind her, rising from the hills. She turned back, eyes wide with fear and confusion at her father. In that moment, she needed him. Bleeding out and scared like a child, she needed him. 

He didn’t spare her a glance. He looked defeated, neglecting to touch his sword. 

“Father,” she wheezed, coughing up a glob of blood. 

He looked out. Watching. Waiting. 

The world began to darken. Gloria was losing consciousness. She begged to whoever was listening to keep her alive. She was too young to die. She had so much left to do. She had not yet been able to sit atop the castle roof, looking out at the skies she’d conquered. 

There were more screams. Gloria looked back at her people, their faces contorted in horror as the mass of demons crept toward them. They grabbed at each other, desperate to cling to their lives. 

Rae ran up to her. 

She saw the gash in her chest clearly. It had turned her white clothes red. The tips of her silver hair were died with rubies. 

“Please,” Rae sobbed, falling to her knees by her leader, “What do we do?” 

“Go,” Gloria coughed, blood spilling past her lips. 

Rae looked about to protest, but when faced with Gloria’s undying eyes, she nodded and turned back to the band. After a few steps, she looked back at what she’d left behind. With a single tear, she said her thanks. 

Gloria looked up at the sky of faces, the behelit still clutched in her red fingers. The ground began to tremble and rise from under her. Up and up she went, trying to figure out if her sight had betrayed her or if she was in fact moving. 

Then she saw the hand. The hand she sat on. The hand that raised her. 

On each of the fingers was a dark figure. 

The first was a short, fat man with a wrinkled head and an open mouth. The second floated through the air as small as a fairy, but as disgusting as a leech. The third was a tall, naked woman with the wings of a bat wrapped around her frame. The fourth was a man in a cloak, the only part of him visible his skull and brain. 

The last man donned a bird like helmet with fierce eyes. Gloria looked straight into those eyes. It was strange how oddly she saw herself reflected in them. She knew in an instant the man she was looking at. She’d felt connected to him her entire life. And here she sat. Helpless in front of him. 

“Griffith,” she cried, trying to crawl toward him. 

Griffith jumped from his position on the finger and floated down to her. He crouched to her height and met her eyes. Her wild eyes. The eyes that held her fear, her anger, her pain, her ambition. 

“You really are perfect,” he whispered, trailing his fingers down her cheek. 

Gloria craoked. 

Griffith chuckled, “You don’t fear me, do you?”

Gloria gently curled her fingers around his wrist. He was warm. Very warm. His heat spread down her arm and up to her open chest where Griffith had graced his touch. 

“How unfortunate,” he clicked his tongue, “What demon would scratch up a girl?”

Griffith looked past Gloria’s shoulder to a man perched at the back of the hand. Gloria followed his gaze to see her father teeming with rage. He must have stayed close enough to get caught in the hand. 

“Get your filthy hands off my daughter.”

His voice was so steady, so prepared, as he’d expected this moment to happen a long time ago. 

“Hello, again, Guts,” Griffith rose like a hawk in the night sky.

“Get away from my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” Griffith seemed to be mocking him, “Are you sure about that?”

Gloria was hardly following their cryptic conversation. 

“I don’t care what you’ve done to torture me, but she’s mine.”

Griffith looked down at Gloria, their eyes connecting and becoming one. She felt his strength. His power. It was seeping into her. He reached a hand out to her. 

“She will choose who she belongs to.”

Gloria took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. She was shaky, but the blood had magically stopped flowing from her chest. Griffith took her other hand, forcing the behelit from her grasp. 

“Gloria, please!” Guts called to her. 

Gloria did not move. She stared at him, white clothes stained red, eyes wild and focused. Guts had never treated her like a daughter. Never acted like a father. He hit her. He strangled her. He cut her open. Those were the only memories of Guts she had. 

Griffith began to laugh. 

“You sad old man,” he watched Guts unsheathe his sword, “You knew. You knew the whole time that she was never yours. She was always mine.”

Gloria unfolded her arms. Griffith stood behind her and ran his fingers over her form. She felt the giant hand they stood on shift and the fingers close around her. 

“Gloria!” Guts shouted from outside the hand’s hold. 

Griffith folded himself around her. She could feel his limbs dance over hers in the darkness. Then, suddenly, he was gone and his warmth was replaced with a slimy bubble forming over her skin. It was tugging at her. Trying to reshape her. 

Gloria closed her eyes and let the fluid sink into her open chest, slowly sealing it. Her clothes disintegrated to nothing, but she didn’t feel naked. She didn’t feel vulnerable. She simply curled in on herself and let herself change. 

As smooth, black feathers sprouted from her shoulder blades, she saw a vision of Angus. He was surrounded by a horde of demons, each with mangled faces of lions and bears and snakes. Angus raised his mace and swung it back and forth like a child afraid of the dark. The demon with the head of a lion grabbed the mace from his hand. The demon with the face of a bear coiled its claws around his arms and raised him in the air. The demon with the face of a snake sunk its teeth in his neck, ripping away the skin and muscle, leaving only his spine to hold his head up. Glora then noticed the brand on his temple, the one her father bore too. It glared at her as if it was a reminder of something she’d forgotten long ago. 

As smooth, black feathers sprouted from her fingertips, she saw a vision of Jett. He was rolling around with the grace of an elephant, throwing knives in every direction. Only a few of them hit. A demon with the limbs of a spider cut across his leg, ripping away the fabric and tearing completely through. Jett fell to the ground, howling in pain. Another demon with long, sharp pincers stabbed down at his stomach. Blood pooled from his body and sputtered from his mouth. The brand on his neck filled with rubies. 

As smooth, black feathers sprouted from her cheeks, she saw a vision of Rae. Her stature was confident, but her eyes deceived her. The sea of demons surrounding her was so thick Gloria couldn’t tell how many there actually were. Rae sliced back and forth over and over until her arms grew weary and the demons took hold of every inch of flesh they could. She muttered out one word before the brand on her chest was split in half with the rest of her body. 

“Gloria.”

Her visions settled and her body finished twisting. Her arms had turned into wings and her legs had turned into talons. The bubble around her melted and the fingers of the hand uncurled. Her once blue eyes, now black as night saw Griffith standing over a defeated Guts. Her father was pinned down by demons, screaming with all the air left in his lungs. His other eye was gone, now replaced with smeared blood. 

“Griffith!” was the only word he could make out. 

Gloria extended her wings and flew up into the scarlet sky, gliding over the ocean of haunted faces and mangled creatures. There was nothing left of her people. They were no more. 

She landed softly on Griffith’s shoulder, head cokced at the sight of her blinded father. Griffith chuckled and ran his fingers over her fresh feathers, his voice as sweet as victory.

“I always knew you’d come to me, my black hawk.”

Gloria looked out at all that was now hers. She was perched at the top of the world, head held to the sky. 

She was a hawk atop a palace of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To celebrate finally publishing the last chapter of this work, I'm going to leave a long note that no one will read:
> 
> I don't know how many people actually read through all of this and I wouldn't be surprised if people were uninterested because it's not a slash fic, but this work meant everything to me. Never in my entire life, which a lot of it has been spent writing, has a story ever come so naturally to me. I would sit in class and wait for a moment when I could open up the document again and keep writing. 
> 
> When I first watched Berserk, I knew instantly that it would be a favorite. I was obsessed with the existentialism and the idea of destiny. I used to hate stories about destiny. I always thought they were too cringey. But Berserk was different. It took something cliche and made it new. It made it mature. 
> 
> Griffith was always my favorite character. I thought his development from a determined boy to a dream-obsessed general was fun to watch. Especially because it wasn't through his eyes. So when I got this idea to recreate the story, but through the perspective of a hypothetical daughter of Guts, I got way too excited. 
> 
> It was so much fun to explore the idea of Gloria (whose name I did not realize I made to match Guts and Glory, but now really like) being a reincarnation of Griffith with the sole destiny of returning to the godhand and making Guts' life a living hell. I loved recreating Casca and Judeau and Pippin even though they didn't get much time in the front lines of the story. 
> 
> Anyway, this work helped me learn to just keep writing. I've been struggling so much lately to just keep going and let the story speak for itself. I didn't plan out any of this. I wasn't exactly certain of how it would end, either. But it just clicked! I just wrote it and it happened and I haven't experienced that since elementary school when my imagination was the wildest it would ever be. I got stuck writing a larger work because I thought actually planning something out for once would make it easier, but no. Writing Is Death the End of Dreams; taught me to let the story take priority, not my need to finish it. 
> 
> While I finished writing this in November, it will always have a special place in my heart. I know it's not perfect. There are parts that contradict itself and some lines are a bit too cheesy for my liking, but this is one of the few things I've done that make me smile when reading back over it. For that, I am grateful. 
> 
> Even though the last page of this story has been turned, I will keep it with me. 
> 
> As of now, I plan to write more fics like this. I really enjoy taking small things out of larger stories and imagining how it must have turned out in the past or future. It really helps me hone in my writing. My next plan is to write a Cowboy Bebop inspired work exploring the past of the "Brain Scratch" episode. Will it ever get done? I don't know. But hopefully it will live up to the experience of writing Is Death the End of Dream.


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